


Graveyard Smash

by ladivvinatravestia



Series: Flash Fic [13]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bullying, Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Halloween, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Teasing, alluring mummies, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 01:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladivvinatravestia/pseuds/ladivvinatravestia
Summary: The Soldier is defrosted to attend Hydra's annual Hallowe'en party.  It might not be a good idea to try and scare him.





	Graveyard Smash

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the Hydra Trash chat.

The Soldier is awakened, and instead of his regular tac suit he's issued a headband with cat ears and a red collar with a bell on it. There are slim-fitting black pants and a black fishnet shirt. So it's going to be _that_ kind of mission. Commander Rumlow pulls black mittens with pink paw prints on the palms over the Soldier's hands and secures them to his wrists with electrical tape. He shifts irritably, the bell at his throat jingling. Rumlow favors him with a knowing smile. Finally, Rumlow attaches something long, black, and fuzzy to the ass of the Soldier's pants. He turns, trying to get a look at it, but no matter how fast he moves, he can't seem to catch more than a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

Rumlow rolls back on his heels and elbows Rollins. "Our kitty's chasing his own tail!" he laughs, and Rollins joins in. The Soldier stops turning.

"What is the purpose of this additional gear?" he asks. He can of course make a guess that he's been activated for stress release functions, but these accessories are a little unusual, even for that.

"It's Hallowe'en, man!" grins Rumlow, slapping him on the back like he's a friend and equal instead of just an asset.

"Hallowe'en," the Soldier repeats flatly. He has a faint recollection of it as some kind of seasonal celebration.

"Yeah, you know? Everyone dresses up as ghosts and monsters and tries to scare each other, and then eats lots of candy and gets drunk," Rumlow explains. He doesn't mention stress relief, but the Soldier imagines it's a given. That's his usual function at social events, especially ones where alcohol is involved.

Rollins opens the door to the holding area and Rumlow steers the Soldier into the hall.

"I am dressed as a cat," the Soldier observes.

"That's right," Rumlow grins, crowding into the Soldier's space as they walk down the hall.

"Cats are neither monsters nor ghosts," the Soldier continues.

"No," says Rumlow, and he lets his hand slide below the Soldier's waist. "Some people dress up in sexy costumes."

He says it as though the Soldier had any agency in choosing how he would be dressed. Though, getting fucked is pretty much the only thing the Soldier is good at other than killing, so maybe if he had made his own choice he would still have chosen to dress as something sexy. Enough of his targets see him as scary. 

"You are not wearing costumes," the Soldier observes.

"That's because we're already scary," says Rumlow, just as Rollins says,

"We're sexy enough, we don't need costumes."

They glare briefly at each other, and then Rumlow laughs. "Damn right we are," he says, "Come on."

The walk to wherever they are going within the complex is unnecessarily roundabout, and as they walk, Rumlow tells the Soldier the story of the killer Michael Myers, who had his first confirmed kill at age six, and who was able to repeatedly escape the facilities he was held in to go on to kill others. The Soldier is not very impressed. Knives and close combat should be considered only if it's for some reason not possible to make a shot at range. And what purpose do the deaths serve? Myers seems to choose his victims at random. The Soldier's kills are all carefully selected by Secretary Pierce in order to shape world events in accordance with the Secretary's plan.

"And then..." Rumlow continues. He seems to be building up the suspense of the story for some reason. The Soldier had better act interested. Who knows if his reactions are being noted so he can be punished later. Anyway, they are coming up on a blind corner and the Soldier can hear the muffled sounds of someone lying in wait for them.

As they round the corner, a man dressed in mechanic's coveralls and a blank white mask jumps out at them brandishing a very sharp knife. Irritated, the Soldier steps out of the assailant's way, his bell ringing as he moves. Is _this_ the reason for the circuitous route and the equally circuitous story?

The assailant quickly drops the aggressive body language and steps back, pulling off the mask with the hand not holding the knife. He's a tall, baby-faced man with pale skin and dark hair. The Soldier doesn't recall having worked with him before.

"Man," he says to Rumlow and Rollins, "I told you this wasn't going to fucking work."

Rumlow and Rollins just stare expectantly at him until he adds, mutinously, "Sirs."

"Well, Ward, not if you can't learn to breathe a little fucking quieter," growls Rumlow.

He slides his hand lower so he's cupping the Soldier's ass under his tail, one finger brushing against the Soldier's inner thigh. "Come on, kitten," he says, and the Soldier follows, because what other choice does he have?

Ward trails after Rumlow, Rollins, and the Soldier as they continue on to whatever their destination is. Now, Rumlow is full of praise for the Soldier. How unflappable he was when faced with the scare they set up. How competent he is in the field. How good he's going to look on his knees for all the party guests later. It would be nice to hear these things, the Soldier thinks, from someone that he actually liked, someone that he wanted to get on his knees for. But since that's unlikely to ever happen, it might be good for him to act flattered by Rumlow's words. Rumlow ranks high enough that if he wants to monopolize the Soldier's time, he won't have to service quite so many different people.

They arrive at their destination, one of the many windowless boardrooms deep in the sub-basements of SHIELD. For the occasion it has been hung with fake cobwebs, paper bats, and giant sparkly plastic spiders. A full-length mirror is propped against one wall, at such an angle as to give everyone who looks in it funhouse proportions. The Soldier is familiar with most of the agents gathered there, even if he isn't certain what most of them are meant to be dressed as. Except for that one guy who might actually be a real werewolf, there are no truly monstrous costumes. Sitwell is dressed in a black suit with a high-collared cape and fangs, but he looks more like a cultured theatre-goer than a nighttime bloodsucker. Mercer is wrapped in coquettishly revealing bands of medical gauze, her eyes heavily kohled and a golden cobra crown on her head. A few of the other guests have also gone the "sexy" route, but many of them are dressed in cheap costumes of pop culture characters the Soldier doesn't recognize, and still more are just in their everyday compression tees and tac pants.

The Soldier accompanies Rumlow and Rollins to the buffet table, even though he doesn't expect to be given anything to eat or drink. As Rollins is ladling out a cup of punch for himself, the Soldier sees another attack incoming. It's Westfahl, and he's dressed in a black cloak too long for him and a full face mask with a rebreather that he's pushed to the top of his head. He's armed with some kind of glowing bladed weapon and yelling a war cry that sounds something like, "Rrrraaagghhhhh!!"

Rumlow and Rollins hadn't said anything to him after the earlier attack by Ward, but he could tell they had been a little disappointed when he failed to react. Well, he won't make the same mistake a second time. He throws a punch at Westfahl. It's not the hardest punch he could throw, but it is enough to knock Westfahl back into the wall. His mask topples off his head.

"What the -?" begins Ward.

Rollins puts his drink down on the table and heads over to where Westfahl is now crumpled against the wall, moaning in distress.

"Oh, man," laughs Rumlow.

Rollins squats down to get a closer look at Westfahl, whose eyes are glassy and unfocussed. "What the hell were you thinking?" Rollins demands of him.

"I didn't think he was gonna - you know," says Westfahl vaguely, waving a hand in the Soldier's direction. "I thought you were gonna scare him in the hall."

"You - ha! - oh my god," gasps Rumlow. He puts his own drink down and grabs the Soldier's arm for support, putting his other hand on his abdomen. At first the Soldier thinks he may be in respiratory distress, but it turns out he's just laughing.

Rollins is now looking back at Ward with an appraising expression on his face. One that suggests he is questioning why Westfahl was able to scare the Soldier when Ward was not. The Soldier could of course explain that neither one of them had startled him, but the more time Rollins is spending pitting Westfahl and Ward against each other, the less time he has to pay attention to what the Soldier is doing. Rumlow has gone over to where Rollins and Westfahl are sat, ostensibly to check Westfahl for a concussion but in fact just so that he can lean against the wall and laugh harder.

The Soldier takes a quick glance around the room. Nobody's eyes are on him. His dexterity isn't as affected by the cat paw mittens as he might have thought. In fact, the one on his left hand improves his ability to grip smooth objects. He ladles himself a glass of punch and adds a generous extra finger of rum. As he's raising the glass to his mouth, he catches his own eye in the fun house mirror. He actually does make for a pretty sexy cat. Maybe some day he'll have someone he wants to be sexy with.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ladivvinatravestia), where my asks box is always open to prompts.


End file.
